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Odd man out …

Some mornings I wonder “Why?”

Not “Why?” as in why doofus/moron/slob types choose to defile our shared environment, but “Why?” as in why I bother to get my hands slimy and dirty and gooey, and take on the persona of a disheveled bag man, jaunt after jaunt after jaunt.

What is known is that finding the cure for cancer is beyond me, I won’t lead the world toward peace or will never know who shot J.R.

Two bags full this morning leaves me to wonder about a lot of things.

Two bags full this morning leaves me to wonder about a lot of things.

But I suppose the real answer goes beyond the hypotheticals just mentioned: The trash is there and shouldn’t be. It needs to be picked up, it must be recycled, and the pathway deserves to be little neater and brighter. This is something I can do. It is within the bounds of my mentality.

Yeah, that would make me the odd man out. I am odd in a lot of ways, this one included. Being publicly on the wrong side of sanity doesn’t cause me to lose any sleep. Knowing that this time tomorrow the path will look as it did today will bring me full circle to the original question.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

1 Comment on Odd man out …

  1. Because you care. Not a thing wrong with that.

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